A Blip on My Radar Life
by asteristar
Summary: [It's Scully's innermost frustrations and fears, all typed up nice and neat in twelve point font.] MSR Rating for Language
1. Hers

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to Stupid is as Lana Does, who really likes the story, if I do say so myself. :D I've been taking a break from writing, and all of a sudden this just popped into my head. I wrote it in about three minutes, and part of it is derived from personal experience. So be nice if you choose to review.

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I hate you.

And I hate that I can't manage to hate you.

God, it is so frustrating that, no matter how hard I try, I can't stay mad at you. I know that you're arrogant and self-centered and such a God-damned son of a bitch, but I can't help it. I could forgive you anything.

Anything except this.

'This' being the fact that I can't be angry at you.

It's a vicious circle. Let's go through the steps, shall we?

Step One: I hate you.

Step Two: I hate you because I don't hate you.

Step Three: I don't hate you because I always forgive you.

Step Four: But I can't forgive the fact that you won't let me hate you.

Therefore, I hate you.

See? I'll always come back around to the same point. We always come back around to that same point. I will always resent the fact that you're above recriminations from me. I will always resent you for being so paradoxically perfect. That's where part of the problem lies.

The rest of it lies in the facts, which are as follows.

We're too different to work. I know that. And at the same time, we're too similar. I know that, too. We could never be right. Maybe that's why I'm so convinced that we are. There are moments when you're smiling at me and I'm laughing at something you've said and it feels like we might be able to work after all.

Of course, those moments are immediately ruined by some idiot comment you have to make. And then, when I'm angry at you and it finally feels like I hate you, you say something nice or you smile a little wider and I'm back where I was a second before.

I wish you would just get a girlfriend. It'll be easier once I know that you're taken. See, you're taken now, but not officially, so it's torture just being around you. Knowing I could have you, but at the same time knowing I can't is my own personal hell.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. It feels kind of good, you know, cathartic. A release of everything I've been dying to say. Dying to scream, actually. It would be so much fun to walk into the office one morning and just yell at you. Really loud. Here's what I'd say. You ready for this? Because I can be kind of harsh.

I'd tell you to go drink bleach, you fucking son of a bitch. I'd tell you to go to hell for all that you've done to me. Do you see what you've reduced me to? Venting my feelings on a laptop at 1:00 in the morning, that's me. I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. You took my life and you destroyed it and I'm not even sure who I am anymore. I'm not the same woman I used to be. I'm different. And it's all your fault. I never used to care about how I dressed or how my hair looked or how my makeup was. And now I spend at least twenty minutes in front of the mirror every day, trying to make myself perfect, just in case you actually look at me one day.

Look at me? I can hear you laughing. Shut up. I know twelve ways to break your arm and I'm thinking of more every day.

It is a ridiculous notion, though. You are caught up in your work. You only notice your work. I could come in with a broken leg and you'd ask me if it would keep me from working in the field. I could walk in with cuts all up and down my arms and you'd ask if it kept me from doing autopsies. I haven't lost respect for the work. I still take it seriously. I can't blame it for your singular focus.

You get so wrapped up in mutants and monsters that you never notice when other people need help. You never notice when other people need the devotion you so willingly bestow up on your work. And it kills, because I'm getting desperate and you don't even notice. These scars littering my arm? I came into work, not bothering to hide them. I was hoping you'd notice. I was hoping you'd care. You barely glanced at me before you started talking about our next case.

The truth? It was me, sitting slumped on the floor in the kitchen leaning up against the counter, clutching a pair of kitchen scissors in my hand. I dragged the metal edge across my left forearm time after time, putting as much pressure as I dared. I was too scared to draw blood, but I was pleased to notice that the blade left a raised red scratch, sure to scar, at least temporarily. I was so proud of myself, in a twisted way. I'd finally struck out. I'd finally lashed back at you for everything you've done to me. Sure, I'd just cut myself, and was probably on the way to depression, but I'd rebelled.

It was only that once. I never did it again. I could never work up the courage. People always call cutters cowards, but in fact, it's the opposite. People say that they're taking the easy way out, but they're not. It takes a sick brand of courage to take a blade to your skin. It takes a perverted sense of sacrifice to cause yourself pain.

I couldn't foster that sense of sacrifice far enough, so that event remained a singularity, a blip on the radar of my life.

You're a blip. You're a wonderful, awful blip that won't go away. And I can't decided if I want you to disappear or not.


	2. His

Author's Note: Still dedicated to Stupid is as Lana Does - who has been really supportive about this whole thing, and is so great.

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I'm sitting here staring at the computer screen. The tiny clock at the bottom of the monitor says it's 3:42 in the morning, which means I've been sitting here for one hour and thirty-four minutes. And I still can't move.

Scully isn't the type to show emotion. So guess how surprised I was when this thing I'm staring at popped up on the desktop? A lot. A lot surprised is the answer. It's a rant. It's Scully's innermost frustrations and fears, all typed up nice and neat in twelve point font.

I shouldn't be reading it. I shouldn't have even opened it. But I did. And I can't decide whether I'm glad or not. See, it gives me insight into this other side of Scully, gives me an answer to some of the many questions she's been unknowingly posing. But then there's the invasion into her privacy. The discovery of the knowledge that she hates me.

Or at least, she sort of hates me. She can't quite decide. I know how she feels. There are days when I hate her for making me as miserably happy as she does. But of course, that hate is underscored by a love that runs deeper than I could ever fathom.

I'm not quite sure how it appeared on the desktop. Technical problems are not my strong suit – Scully has to fix my computer at least once a week. But there it was. Her heart poured onto electronic paper. All this frustration. All this desperation.

And I had no idea. I had no fucking idea.

She's always made a big deal about being independent. About being a self-supporting woman. I've never questioned that. I've always admired it. And when I saw those scars on her arm that she wrote about, I thought she would get angry if I tried to ask what had happened. I thought she would see it as stealing her independence, and that's something I never want to do.

So I didn't say anything. I buried myself in the work, and cast furtive worried glances at her whenever she wasn't looking. I made sure to keep my cell phone nearby all the time, just in case she needed me. And she needs me. She does. She'll do anything to deny it, but Scully needs me like she needs air.

She wrote about us being too different, and yet too similar to ever work. I think I know what she means. We rarely agree on everything, and if it weren't for the fact that we can't live without each other, we'd have killed each other by now. She can be insufferable sometimes. But then again, so can I.

She thinks I'm obsessed with my work. And I was, up until I met her. Since then, my focus has begun to shift from the monsters and mutants to her. And I'll admit, it's much easier on the eyes this way. She thinks I don't notice the way she dresses or the way her hair looks. The truth is, I notice too much. Way too much. So I try not to let on. And apparently, I'm doing too good a job. I need to work on that.

My head jerks up from staring blankly at the computer screen as I hear the elevator ding. Who's here at 3:42 in the morning? Oh, right. I am. But nobody else comes down here except Scully. So that means that Scully is walking down the hallway right now. And that means that she's about to walk in and see me reading something I shouldn't be reading. And that means I'm in trouble.

I push the wheely chair away from the desk frantically, but I'm trapped by boxes of files and I can't go anywhere. Scully's going to catch me redhanded. The door swings open, and my expression is wide eyed and innocent and totally guilty.

Scully stops in the doorway. She's surprised to see me here, and though she was writing about me with anger and vexation just three hours ago, her smile lights up slightly. I return the grin, but not before she catches sight of my condemning expression.

"Mulder," she says warily, "what did you do?"

"Nothing!" I respond, defensively. She glances at the text on the computer screen and frowns.

"What did you read?"

Nothing, Scully. Just your private thoughts that you never meant me to see, that's all.

"Look, Scully, I didn't know what it was. It appeared on the desktop and I thought it might be case related so I read it." Her face pales. She knows what I've read. "I'm so sorry, Scully, for everything. For reading what you wrote, of course, but for so much else."

She starts to leave. She doesn't want to hear this. She wants to forget everything. But I can't. We've come too far. She never wrote the words, but she loves me, and I will not let this opportunity pass without her telling me so. She's at the door before I can get the words out.

"I notice, Scully." She stops, her back to me, but she's listening. "You think I don't, but I notice everything about you. I notice the way you laugh when you're nervous and the way you bite your lip when you have something you want to tell me."

She shifts from foot to foot, unsure of whether to turn around or not. I keep going.

"The thing is, I never know what to say. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to notice. I'm never sure if I'm allowed to compliment you, or if that'll be stepping over the partner line."

She finally turns, and the look on her face is priceless. She is looking at me with a mix of pity, amusement, and hope.

"You're always allowed to compliment me, Mulder. And boundaries? I thought you didn't really respect those."

I shrug. "Not normally. But with you, I try." She sighs, leaning on the edge of the desk.

"Why, Mulder? Why should boundaries matter between us?"

The way she says 'us' makes it significant. I know what she's saying. We're so close. Why do we keep putting up walls that keep us apart?

"Because," I answer. "Without boundaries, you would see too much of me, and then get sick of me, and then leave. That's why."

I'm joking. Kind of. But she sees the kind of more than the joking. And she smiles, the special kind she reserves for me, the kind that makes her face more than just beautiful. I stand up and move around the desk to stand next to her, leaning back against the edge of the desk in a copy of her position.

"Mulder, I already see too much of you, and I haven't gotten sick of you yet," she tells me in a voice that should probably be teasing, but isn't. I reach over and take her right hand in my left, twining our fingers together. She doesn't look at me, but she leans into me slightly. We're silent for a few moments, but then I feel the need to clarify something.

"You know, Scully, I hate me sometimes, too."

She stiffens next to me, and I wince inwardly. That was a main theme of Scully's writings, and I guess she's kind of touchy about it.

"I don't hate you, Mulder," she says, still not looking at me. "Or maybe I do. I don't know. It's just that sometimes you make me so angry. And then when I try to be mad at you, I can't."

There's an explanation for that, Scully. It's called love. And it's happening to me, too.

"There are so many things I get angry at you for," she continues, "and the first one on my list is the fact that no matter what happens, I can always forgive you."

That's what people in love do, Scully. They forgive each other. Just as we always do.

"I'm grateful for that every day," I tell her, and she looks up at me, thoughtful.

I release her hand and instead wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close against my side. I am struck by the fact that, though she is discussing how much she hates me sometimes, she is still letting me be near her.

"Mulder," she asks, "am I in love wth you?"

Hell yes, I scream inwardly. I shrug, trying not to look as happy as I'm feeling. She's finally figuring it out.

"I can't tell you that, Scully. That's a question for you to answer."

"I think I am," she says matter-of-factly. She leans up and kisses me quickly, and then heads out the door, leaving me stunned, paralyzed with shock.

After regaining movement, I run after her, catching up with her in the parking garage, where our two cars are the only two there.

"Scully!" I call, and she turns around, pausing in the middle of opening her car door. I approach her carefully and stop a few feet away. "What the hell was that?"

"Well," she rationalizes, "I decided that it would've been mean of me to just walk out of the room after telling you that I'm in love with you."

"Yes, it would have been," I agree.

"But I was still angry at you for reading what I wrote when I didn't say you could." I roll my eyes.

"Come on, Scully," I very nearly whine.

She grins. "It'll be okay, Mulder. Remember – I always forgive you."

I could swear she winks at me as she climbs into her car and shuts the door. Soon, her car is pulling out of the garage and into the light traffic there is at 4:00 in the morning. It is then I remember that the office lights are still on, and so is the computer. I head back into the building, a smile on my face.

So she hates me. Big deal. She loves me, too.


End file.
